“Millie is different from a lot of women.” If Lucy continued to do battle with her clothes, it was going to be a very long night. Watching her was like watching a slow striptease.
“Don’t you mean was different?”
“What?” He raised his gaze to hers as desire, hot and unwelcome as hell, twisted and tugged and gave a little kick to the pit of his stomach. The woman looking back at him over the flickering candle might be innocent. Might be a mystery writer and nothing more. A victim of circumstance. Or she might be responsible for the murder of three men.
“You said, ‘Millie is different’ as if she were still alive,” Lucy said.
Shit. He’d let himself get distracted by her sweater. She was sharp, and he was going to have to be even sharper. Which meant he was going to have to pay more attention to doing his job and less attention to the smooth skin of her neck and shoulders. “I meant was, of course.”
A tiny crease appeared between her brows. “Perhaps it’s too soon for you to date.”
“No.” He shook his head and gave her his best “trust me” smile. One he’d used many times to put murder suspects and drug dealers at ease. “Sometimes I still refer to my father in the present tense, too,” he lied as easily as he smiled. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t know he’s gone. Just like I know Millie’s gone and she’s never coming back. I will always feel the loss of her, but that doesn’t mean I have to stand in one place and feel the pain of it every day. For the rest of my life.”
Her brow smoothed, and he knew the second she decided to believe him. Yeah, she was smart and very perceptive. If she wasn’t a murder suspect, she was just the sort of woman he usually went for. But she was a suspect, and it would be a cold day in hell before a suspect outsmarted Detective Quinn McIntyre. No matter how smart and gorgeous. No matter how hot she was or how hot she made him.
Chapter 4
Skeptic: Seeks Lady in Red…
The cocktail waitress returned with their drinks, and Lucy sat back in her chair, the alarm bell in her head fading beneath his charming smile, which she didn’t quite trust. He’d used the present tense regarding his wife. Perhaps it had been just an innocent slip as he’d explained. Or maybe he was using the whole widowed thing as a con. Yeah, maybe.
“What are your hobbies?” he asked.
“I really don’t have any hobbies,” she answered as she reached for her mojito. Or maybe she should believe him. Just because she was telling a few little lies about who she was didn’t make him a liar, too. He could be telling the truth and really did want to move on with his life.
“Not one?” he persisted, as if he was really interested in getting to know her and not just making conversation. “There has to be something you do for fun.”
Perhaps she was looking for trouble where none existed. Deflecting her guilt onto him. She decided to believe him for now. “I’m not very crafty.” She took a drink and let memories of past mojitos fill her head. The sweet rum and mint drink always reminded Lucy of sitting in a cabana somewhere in Mexico. Or sitting on a beach in the Bahamas with her friends. “I can’t draw or sew or glue,” she added. She took another drink, then told him about the time she’d tried to make a Christmas wreath and had burned her fingers with hot glue. She talked about her experience rock climbing and the time she’d let an old boyfriend coerce her into kayaking. Both had been disasters. “Do you have hobbies?” she asked the man looking at her from across the table.
“Not really. When I have some free time, I work around my house. Hanging cabinets and refinishing floors.” He raised his bottle of Becks and took a drink. He lowered the beer and said, “I take my dog out and bird hunt. That’s about it.”
She could picture him doing both. Tool belt hung low on his hips or wearing fatigues, shotgun in the crook of his arm, loyal dog at his heels. Looking very fine. Very studly. She wondered if he wore camo boxers or tighty whities. Maybe he went commando.
“What did you do all winter? Go on any ski trips? Take a vacation to Mexico?” he asked, breaking into her mind’s libidinous wanderings.
“Last November my friends and I vacationed on Paradise Island. We drank too much. Gambled too much. And had too much fun.” It really wasn’t her fault her brain had gone to the sinful side. From the second she’d walked in the door, she’d felt the pull of his gaze on her, like dark, intense tractor beams. She couldn’t ever recall being the sole attention of any man. Not like this. Not to the exclusion of everything and everyone else, even the young waitress in the tight shirt who’d given him a flirty smile as she’d served their drinks. “I haven’t gone anywhere this year.”
“Not even an overnight trip to Pocatello?” he asked, referring to a town a few hundred miles east of Boise.
“No. I’ve just been working.” In the subdued light, his eyes looked black. A lock of thick hair fell over his forehead, while little comma curls touched the tops of his ears. It was several hours past his five o’clock shadow, and black whiskers darkened his square jaw.
“No boyfriends sweeping you off your feet for a weekend getaway?”
“No. No boyfriends for about a year now.”
“You’re kidding,” he said as if he found it hard to believe.
Lucy stirred her mojito with the sprig of mint stuck in it. “No. I’ve been avoiding relationships.” Her fingertips brushed the condensation on the side of the glass, and the pesky sleeve of her boat neck sweater slid down her arm again. If she’d known the sweater was going to give her so much trouble, she would have worn something else. “I’ve been involved with some real idiots in my life, and I’ve decided to take a break before I get too bitter.”
“You’re bitter about men?”
“Perhaps jaded is a better word.” She pushed her sweater back up.
“How long have you been on break?”
She really didn’t want to admit how long it had been since she’d had a real date. “A while,” she answered. She didn’t consider tonight a real date. Tonight was more a curiosity thing. She’d only agreed to meet with Quinn because he’d sent her those two sappy e-mails. She felt kinda sorry for him and…well, she’d wanted to see if he was as good looking as she remembered. He wasn’t as good. He was even better. “I prefer a good book to a bad date.” Without the red ball cap to shadow the upper half of his face, she could see the fine lines at the corners of his dark brown eyes, which hinted at easy laughter.
“How many bad Internet dates have you had?”
Those hadn’t been real dates either. Lord, it was getting hard to keep up the pretense. “How many have you had?”
He leaned forward and placed his forearms on the table. He reached for the candle and pushed it from one hand to the other. His silver watchband scraped the smooth surface. “Most of the women I’ve met have been nice ladies, just not for me. You’re the only woman I’ve asked to meet me twice. The only woman I’ve thought about since I met you. The only woman I want to know better.” He glanced up from the candle and looked at her as if she were the only female in the bar. He said, “Your turn.”
Something in his voice spread warm, seductive tingles across her skin. She didn’t even know the man. Didn’t really believe what he was telling her half the time. So why was he giving her tingles? “My turn at what?”
“Tell me about your Internet dates.”
Oh yeah. “Out of all the men I’ve met online, seventy percent were just looking for quick sex and were real losers. Twenty percent were lonely and desperate for a girlfriend, any girlfriend. The jury is still out on the last ten percent.”
“Where do I fit?”
She picked up the glass and took a drink before she answered, “The jury is still out on you.”
He placed his hands flat on the table and sat back in his chair. He looked at her for several heartbeats, then turned the conversation in a different direction. “What do you think about those three men who were murdered recently?”
Lucy set her drink on the table. Wow, what a way to r
uin the mood. She’d only met one of the poor guys. Lawrence aka luvstick had fallen into the seventy percent looking for quick sex, and she’d killed him off in chapter three. A few weeks later she’d read in the newspaper that someone had really killed him. Thinking about it was freaky. Ahuge coincidence that she tried not to think about. She looked into Quinn’s dark gaze, and she wondered if he was worried for his own safety. If she were a man, she’d be worried about it. “Are you afraid you could be next?”
He chuckled as if deeply amused and raised the Becks to his mouth. “Nah. I can take care of myself,” he said before he took a drink.
That’s probably what luvstick had thought. “Have you heard how the perpetrator is meeting her victims?”
He shook his head and lowered the bottle. A drop of beer clung to his top lip, and he sucked it off. “Have you?”
“No. The police must not have much evidence.”
He set the bottle on the table, and he did that intense tractor beam thing with his gaze again. As if what she’d said was important. “Why do you say that?”
The way he paid attention was odd, really. Yet at the same time flattering. “They don’t generally tell the press much if they don’t have a lot of evidence.” She’d read so many books and interviewed so many cops that she could practically predict how they’d behave. It was part of her job to know. Quinn was a plumber and wouldn’t necessarily know police procedure. “They like to keep certain aspects of cases from getting out. Things that only the killer would know. If they don’t have a lot, they don’t leak much.”
His dark brows lowered. “How does a nurse know all of that?”
Yeah, how did a nurse know all of that? She smiled. “Cold Case Files. Remember?”
“Ah.” He tilted his head back. “That’s right. Did you date any of the guys who were killed?”
Lucy looked down at the table and her hand resting next to her glass. After luvstick’s death, the newspaper had reported that he’d actually been married but had had a little bachelor pad/love nest set up in an apartment off State Street, where his body had been found. The report had been ugly and sordid, and his family hadn’t deserved having it splashed across the news. Lucy didn’t want to talk about luvstick. “No. I didn’t date any of them.” Which wasn’t a real lie. She didn’t consider meeting men at a coffee house a real date. Her sweater slid down her arm once more, and she decided just to leave it there. It wasn’t like anything was showing, and she was tired of pushing it back up. “You should be careful, though.”
Again he leaned forward to play with the candle. “Are you worried about me?”
With his wide shoulders, thick arms, and strong hands, he looked like he could sling her over his shoulder and run for a mile or two. He exuded complete confidence in himself and his abilities, but confidence didn’t stop a determined killer. “Do you want me to worry about you?”
“That depends.”
“On?”
He watched the flickering candle for several moments. Then he looked up, and his voice dropped to that smooth, seductive level that gave her tingles. “On what worrying about me involves.”
Lucy had been around enough men in her thirty-four years to know exactly where this conversation was headed. A part of her wanted to go there, too. The part that was attracted to Quinn beyond rationality and reason. The part that felt his testosterone-laced voice slide across her flesh and felt his gaze touch her everywhere at once, even as he stared into her eyes. But she hadn’t allowed that part of her to act irrationally since she’d learned the hard way that sex was much better with a man she actually knew. Sure, she’d gone to bed with her share of liars and losers, but at least she’d known the liars and losers for a while first. It seemed like a small distinction, but it was an important one. “Tell me about your plumbing business,” she said, introducing a nice, safe-boring-subject.
He chuckled and told her that he mostly ran the business end of it these days, as opposed to installing toilets and running pipe. Within minutes, the subject somehow changed from plumbing to field trials. She learned he had an Irish setter that he was training to hunt, and while she didn’t give a damn about bird dogs, she was a little surprised that the conversation didn’t bore her. Perhaps it was because of Quinn’s obvious pleasure in the subject, or maybe because he looked so good talking about it. Probably both.
The waitress approached the table just as Lucy polished off her mojito. Again the waitress gave Quinn a flirtatious smile, but he hardly spared her a glance. He asked Lucy if she’d like another drink or perhaps dinner. She declined and reached for her Dolce & Gabbana snakeskin clutch. She had to write at least ten pages tonight if she was going to meet her book deadline. She pulled out a ten-dollar bill, but Quinn insisted on settling the tab. He helped her with her coat, but this time his fingers did not brush the back of her neck as they had earlier.
She tied the belt at her waist and held out her hand. “Thank you.”
Instead of taking her hand, he grasped her beneath her arm and said, “I’ll walk you to your car.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t have to. I want to.” They moved to the entrance, and he dropped his hand from her and opened the door. “Where did you park?”
“About half a block down Bannock.” Cool night air touched Lucy’s face and slid down the front of her coat. She pulled the lapels close. Light from the restaurants and bars lining both sides of Eighth Street lit up patches of sidewalk as they made their way to Lucy’s car. Occasional laughter from the bars leaked out into the night and drowned out the sound of Lucy’s heels hitting the concrete. Quinn’s arm brushed hers once, but other than that brief encounter, he didn’t touch her again.
“Have dinner with me Monday,” he said as they rounded the corner.
Monday. That was two days away. In the back of her brain, she knew she had plans, but at the moment she couldn’t remember what they were. But even if she didn’t, he was coming on so strong that Lucy didn’t know whether to feel flattered or stalked. “Oh, I don’t know.” Perhaps because he’d been out of the dating pool for so long, he’d forgotten the rules of dating. Clearly rule number one was to pretend indifference until you could ascertain the other person’s feelings. “I’m not really dating right now.”
“What do you call tonight?”
“Making an exception.” She was attracted to him. There was no denying it. Just as there was no denying the guy oozed a kind of brain-numbing sexual appeal. The kind that could have a girl naked before she remembered that she was supposed to “Just say no.” They walked from beneath the bright light on the corner, and Lucy stopped by her car.
“Make another exception.”
Feeble light from a closed printer’s shop spilled across the sidewalk and onto the bottom of Quinn’s pants and the toes of Lucy’s shoes. She shook her head and opened her purse. “I don’t know you well enough to make another exception for you.”
“I can solve that problem right now.” He took her purse, snapped it closed, and tossed it on the top of her car.
She looked up into the darkened shadows of his face. “What are you doing?”
He slid his hands up her arms and across her shoulders. His fingers plowed up through her hair, and he held the back of her head. “Something I’ve wanted to do all night,” he said just above a whisper as his mouth descended toward hers. She put her hands on his chest, meaning to stop him. Then he said, “The second you walked into the bar, I wanted to kiss you,” and she forgot about stopping. He gently pulled her head backward, and her lips parted. “Starting right here. With your mouth.”
Lucy’s hands opened and closed on his sweater, over the hard muscles of his chest. His lips pressed into hers, a warm, irresistible possession. Her palms slid to his shoulders and she held on as his slick tongue entered her mouth, teasing and coaxing a response. He tasted a little like the beer he’d drunk, but mostly like a man with sex on his mind. She should have been alarmed, and she was. But mos
tly because she liked the taste in her mouth. Like something hot and delicious, it poured through her and warmed the pit of her stomach. Her toes curled inside her Donald J. Pliner pumps, and her fingers dug into the weave of his sweater. His hands never left the back of her head. His mouth never left hers, yet she felt the kiss everywhere. His wet mouth ate at hers, devouring all rational thought and turning on every cell in her body. She hardly knew him, but she didn’t care much as he fed her kisses that left her feeling consumed, burned alive right there on the sidewalk of downtown Boise. She moaned and leaned into him.
He lifted his face and spoke just above her moist mouth. “See me again.”
It wasn’t a question, and she nodded. “Okay.”
“Monday.”
“Okay.”
He dropped his arms and took a step back. Dazed, she stared into the variegated shadows of his face and raised a hand to the tender skin below her bottom lip where his chin had abraded her. She wondered if he’d left a mark.
“Did I hurt you?”
The little patch felt raw to the touch. “I’m okay.”
He placed his fingers beneath her chin and tilted her face toward the streetlight. His thumb brushed her jaw, and he leaned forward to lightly kiss just below her bottom lip. “I’m sorry.” She felt his whispered breath on her skin. The warmth of it brushed her chin and slid down the side of her throat. “I got a little carried away.”
She closed her eyes and waited for the return of his mouth to hers.
“Lucy.”
“Yes.”
“Either you leave now, by yourself. Or you leave with me.” He stepped back and cold air separated his chest from the front of her coat but did little to cool her heated cheeks. “What’s it going to be?”
Lucy opened her eyes and cleared her throat. “I’m leaving.” She did not believe in love at first sight. “By myself.” She left that up to romantics and romance writers like Clare. But lust…lust was different. Lust at first sight was something that Lucy did believe in. She was staring it right in the face. It heated her blood, pooled in the pit of her stomach, and made her want to follow wherever Quinn might want to take her. Instead she turned and reached for her purse.
Sex, Lies, And Online Dating Page 5
